The Soldier and the Viper
by Drew Demeter
Summary: When one head falls, another grows in its place. In which Hydra considers its two best assets and decides to make something far bigger than either of them. (Bucky/OC slow-burn; slightly AU, pre-CATWS and beyond)
1. Chapter 1

**The Solider and the Viper**

 **A/N: Hey everyone! Welcome to my new fic, born from such excessive lusting over the Winter Soldier that I had to come out of hiatus and write something! Please fave/follow and leave me a review if you love it/ hate it/ just want to chat, and thanks for reading! I'm not sure how my posting schedule is going to be yet as I'm in college, but I'm going to try and aim for once a week. Anyways, enjoy!**

 **One**

On the first day, there is nothing.

She is shivering; she is cold, she thinks dully, twisting a strand of black-brown hair tightly around her finger. She can feel the slick of grease sliding pat her finger like a thin coat of candlewax, and her little nose wrinkles in contemplation for a second before her nostrils flare in surprise.

Suddenly, there is light.

* * *

On the second day, there is a little bit more.

The sound of metal hitting the hard stone floor echoes across the room she is kept in. She crawls forward tentatively on her hands and knees, mindful of the little roaches that scurry in fear at her sudden movements. She smiles to herself – she likes bugs. She remembers a woman in red then, and a big blue pail, and an earthworm wriggling against her palm like a little muscle.

There is a small plastic plate on the tray. A hard little apple, the stale heel of a loaf of bread, and a piece of chicken. She eats greedily, both hands coming up to shove food into her mouth. A deep chuckle fills the space; she cannot decide if it is harsh or gentle, so she buries a shy blush behind her bread, eyes cast to the ground.

"Already she has an appetite," someone says in her native tongue. She blinks; she has never heard German here, only ever the strange, deep language that all the guards speak when they talk amongst themselves. Emboldened by the familiarity, she crawls forward again, the remnants on her plate forgotten.

The man is light-haired, a scruff of stubble covering his cheeks. His monocle glints in the dim light he has brought with him into her space. She flinches when, suddenly, the light is pointed toward her; she anticipates pain.

He laughs again. "What are you afraid of, _Mausi?_ I'm not going to hurt you." He kneels down, almost eye level with the child on the floor before him. Her large dark eyes bore into his expectantly, the depth of them catching him off guard for a second. He shakes it off, murmuring almost to himself, "No, _mein Schatz,_ together we are going to do great things."

She scrunches up her nose, thinking. He recalls, amused, the same look on her face when he came to see her the day before. Then, she had shrunk back, pressed almost flat against the wall furthest from the door to her cell. It's good that she's gotten bolder; with a little training, she will make a fine asset.

"What are we going to do?" she asks finally, her voice high and lilting. He smiles, extending a hand, willing her to place her little palm into his. He knows this will be easier if she is complicit; they will not make the same mistakes they did before.

Baron Strucker considers the child before him and squeezes her hand. "Together, we are going to save the world."

* * *

On the third day, there is much more.

The same nice man from the day before comes to collect her after she eats.

"What did you have for breakfast today, _Mausi_?" he asks her as they walk down a long, brightly lit hallway. She contemplates the lights hanging from the ceiling, the grey concrete walls, the men in black that watch her with steely eyes. She stares back when she can, her curls swinging with every turn of her head.

"Bread and fruit and chicken," she replies, finally turning her gaze to her only friend in this strange place. He glances down at her, lips curling into the shadow of a smile.

" _Fantastisch._ What kind of fruit?"

She thinks. "Banana." He swallows a laugh; she is so serious, for such a small child. She will be easy to train.

Her friend stops in front of a white door with two small windows at the top, too high for her to see into. He raps twice, then enters, motioning for her to follow him. The room is sparse, but more furnished than her cell. There's an examination table fitted with a white plastic sheet in the center, surrounded with various contraptions that make her a little bit nervous.

"What are we doing here?" she asks.

"Sometimes, _Mausi_ , children need to get checkups to make sure they're healthy and growing big and strong," he replies, lifting her onto the table. He observes her greasy, unwashed hair, hanging in clumps around her face. "And sometimes, little children need to take baths as well. Would you like that?"

She isn't sure she knows what a bath is, so she just nods in response, gaging from his reaction that he is pleased with her. She swallows a self-righteous smile; she likes impressing him.

The door opens again, revealing a new man in a long white coat, looking down his sharp, angular nose at her. Her friend turns to leave, exchanging a few words with the man before flashing her a comforting grin. "I'll send one of my friends to collect you when you're finished, _Mausi._ "

She can't help the little pout that forms on her lips as he disappears through the door, nor the way it trembles as the new man approaches her. He does not smile.

"Who are you?" she asks him, but he ignores her. He takes a little pen out of his breast pocket and suddenly there's a very bright light shining in her eyes. She yelps, trying to squeeze them shut, noticing with dismay and fear that he has anticipated her reaction and has brought his other hand up to hold her lid open. After what feels like a long time he shuts the light off, and she breathes a tiny sigh of relief.

The man checks inside her ears and mouth before running his ungentle hands down her arms and legs, tapping here and there and prodding at the angry red marks that have yet to fade around her wrists. She winces, but sits very still.

"Are you giving me my checkup?" she tries again. This time he fixes her with an icy expression and snaps at her in a language she doesn't know. She casts her eyes to her bare feet, black with dirt; he doesn't speak German.

Without warning, he picks her up and carries her through a door in the back of the room; she is sitting again, this time in a white, egg-like pod, before she can react to his sudden movements. He pushes her down with a shove to her chest, the wind knocked out of her when he back hits the base of the pod with a smack. His hands are busy, tucking various limbs into restraints and buckling them tightly enough that she finds she can't move. Her eyes dart back and forth, her mouth open to scream… then the stranger shuts the pod with a hiss of escaping air, and she feels herself floating, floating, floating, floating…

Strucker returns while the child is still sleeping peacefully in cryo. He observes her in the glass, her little features polished like porcelain and ghost-white in the cold. He can see her skin regenerating as it freezes, creating the appearance of a flickering aurora across her skin.

"Report," he orders, in Russian.

The doctor consults his clipboard. "Her vitals read stable; her heartbeat is lower than normal for a child her age. She has suffered no neurological damage from her memory wipe, though it was very thorough; it's unlikely she will ever remember who she was before Hydra."

"And her abilities?" Strucker asks, fixated on the dancing patterns across her skin.

"Without further testing, it's almost impossible to tell. But I would say she's damn near indestructible. She heals almost as quickly as she takes damage."

It is only then that the baron allows a smirk to curl his lips. It's a day none of them thought was possible – a child, born with abilities beyond their capacity to manufacture. Even the Asset's advanced healing is child's play in comparison.

He has only one more question. "Is it transferrable?" The doctor only shrugs in response.

* * *

By the fourth day, she has been moved to a different room. This one is a few floors higher than the one she spent her first few days in, and it's much brighter. Windows span one wall, offering her a view of endless snow and sheets of white rock. She is given a bed and a desk, and a small closet filled with clothes. Her friend shows her where the bathroom is and tells her that for now, she mustn't leave her quarters without an adult.

"Why can't I?" she asks, sitting on the end of her new bed. His eyes harden, just a fraction.

"Because. There are some things that _Mausis_ mustn't concern themselves with."

She has dozed off by the time Strucker returns with a stack of schoolbooks. He intends to start her lessons as soon as she has adjusted to her new living situation – there has never been a successful Hydra agent that doesn't speak a word of Russian. He will have her learn English as well, and perhaps another language like Chinese or Spanish. And of course, she will start her training soon too.

When the child awakens, she blinks at the books piled up on her desk, wondering what they're doing there. She wanders over, standing on the tips of her toes to pull the top one down from the pile. A jumble of unfamiliar characters stare back at her.

"That is Russian, _Mausi_." She jumps at the sound of her friend's voice, turning to face him.

"I don't know Russian," she informs him, gently tucking the book back into its place.

"You will learn." He takes her hand, leading her over to her closet. "Do you remember what your sparring clothes look like?"

She nods. It takes a minute of clumsy rummaging before she pulls out a black shirt and a pair of tight-fitting black pants. She looks up at him expectantly, a pleasant feeling warming her chest when he gives his approval.

"Good girl. Get changed."

"Where are we going?" she asks as he leads her down another hallway, indistinguishable from the others she has walked down in her four days.

"I am going to introduce you to a friend of mine," her friend responds. "He will begin your training."

"What are we training for?" she asks curiously.

"Enough questions." He opens a door to a large, dimly lit room, the floor dominated by a large, hard-looking mat. In the center stands a tall figure, dressed all in black. His long hair falls into his eyes, weeks-old stubble darkening his jawline. The child falters, her eyes wide and unblinking as they meet the soldier's, then flit a little further down, to the right. His left arm is steel; he is made of metal.

"Walk up to him," her friend orders, giving her a little push. "He won't bite."

She swallows her fear, allowing her curiosity to take over as she marches with slow, soft footsteps toward the soldier. He's wearing fatigues, the belts and buckles fascinating her for a moment, though nothing is as captivating as the guns strapped to his thighs in holsters. He watches her closely; when she finally looks up and meets his eyes, she is shocked to find something dead in them. He is not human, not like she is.

"What's his name?" she calls softly over her shoulder. Something instinctual tells her not to turn her back to him. The soldier continues to watch her, steel blue grating against deep brown.

"You can call him the Asset," Strucker says, watching the two closely. He briefed the Asset before their meeting with the girl; he knows the soldier is only waiting for his signal. When their eyes meet over the child's head, he gives it.

The Asset is a beautiful, terrible monster, Strucker muses, watching him spin with practiced fluidity, a knife appearing seemingly out of nowhere in the palm of his metal hand. The child squeals in surprise as he drives it toward her, her survival instincts strong enough to send her rolling to the mat as the Asset brings his knife down hard, aiming for her chest. He seems to anticipate this movement, his human hand reaching out to grip her arm before she can fully hit the floor. He lifts her in the air as easily as if she were a doll, an audible pop and a tearful cry indicating a possible shoulder dislocation. The Asset ignores her, his knife plunging deep into her stomach. They wait for a scream that never comes.

She feels the knife break her skin, and then… nothing. Slowly, she reaches down, feeling where the knife is lodged to the hilt, right below her rib cage. Gripping tightly with her good hand, she pulls. Her flesh seems to fold in on itself once it realizes the intruder is gone; suddenly she is holding a bloody knife in her hand, and beneath the tear on her black shirt, her stomach is smooth and white as before.

The fear gives way to anger when she realizes she is unhurt; she looks up to see the Asset looking down, eyes fixated hard on her stomach, on the phantom wound that should reside there but somehow doesn't. She feels a tickle in her throat, a childish temper rising in her – and before she realizes what she's done, she has driven the knife upwards, its blade carving a fine line into the Asset's human hand.

He is surprised, even as he pushes away the pain. He immediately rearranges his face into a more neutral expression, but not before the child catches sight of something in his eyes. A haze of confusion, or a flicker of pain… she couldn't say for sure.

He drops her into an unceremonious heap on the ground, his metal hand coming up to inspect the damage. It's nothing more than a papercut of a wound, but he's still… impressed?... that she managed to catch him in a moment of weakness. He looks questioningly at his handler, sees the hardness in his eyes, and knows his punishment will come later. A machine does not show weakness.

Another loud pop draws his eyes back to the lump of a girl before him, who is holding her dislocated arm with an expression halfway between confusion and awe.

She looks at his handler for answers, and the Asset turns his gaze back to him as well, wondering if he has any.

"It doesn't hurt," she says, sounding lost.

Strucker smiles. His experiment has gone better than he had dared to hope it would. "You're a very special little girl, _Mausi."_

He is proud of her retaliation, however weak or ill-founded it was. From years of service to the cause, Strucker knows that skill, agility, and precision can be taught, but grit is something that is born, not made. He sees a temper burning behind her eyes, heat she is desperate to push behind her eagerness to please. He thinks he can use both to his advantage.

He turns to his Asset, who regards him with the same steel eyes. "You will begin training tomorrow. The Asset will be your teacher."

* * *

By the thirtieth day, she is no longer a little girl crouched in the corner of her cell. She is a viper.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hi again** **everyone! So, quick update this time – I'm basically procrastinating all my schoolwork (lol) and thought this would be a good time to wade through more of the backstory before we get to the good part (not going to give anything away here, so you'll just have to come back and find out what happens (: ) Thanks to those of you who have favorited/ followed this fic – it means a lot to me that someone it reading it!**

 **Two**

 _Two years later_

She is itching, for two different reasons. A bead of sweat rolls between her eyes, over skin already chalky and stinging with salt. She wipes it away, annoyed.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" she shouts, in Russian.

Three men converge on her. She ignores their faces – their identities are insignificant in a fight. It was one of the first lessons she learned. She falls into fighting stance, hating the subtle shaking of her fists as she brings them up to protect her face. She doesn't dare glance at her handler. The second lesson she learned: never, ever turn your back to an enemy.

She throws a punch at the weakest link, unsurprised when he blocks it, grabbing hold of her fist with his own crushing grip. She throws herself forward, tucking into a roll that he is unprepared to follow. Swearing, he crashes to the floor, but not before aiming a well-placed kick that hits her on the back of her left knee. She grits her teeth, turning her attention to the biggest of her opponents, whose boot is poised to crush her skull if she doesn't move.

She rolls away just in time, wincing as the mat dips under his heavy tread. Some part of her remembers that they were authorized weapons for this exercise, and pulls a knife from the belt around her waist just in case. The thin metal feels light and comfortable in her hand, and she almost smiles as she jumps to her feet, dancing nimbly around the three men that track her closely.

The middle-sized one pulls a gun from its holster and shoots, the bullet tearing through her shoulder. This time, she does smile, the warm buzz of her skin confirming what she and they already knew. She is untouchable.

"Is that the best you can do?" she taunts them, flinging the knife in one motion. She trusts that she will not miss. The largest man drops with a pained grunt, a pool of blood already spreading across his upper thigh, while she turns to her two other targets.

One – the weakest link – continues to fire at her. She ignores the bullets that fly around her, sprinting at him. When she is mere feet away she jumps, legs wrapping tightly around his neck. She swings herself up so she is sitting on his shoulders, and, listening carefully, raps the top of his skull sharply with one clenched fist. He drops, predictably, and she swings herself off, landing on her feet with only the slightest of sounds.

She is breathing heavily, sweat pouring into her eyes, but she knows she is close. The last man regards her warily, his hand straying once more to the comfort of his pistol, strapped securely against his waist. She smiles, full of scorn.

"Your weapons will not save you, _Feigling_." He lunges at her with the force of a mad man. He manages to cuff her left ear, and the subsequent ringing throws her off-balance for a minute. He pulls her hair; she snarls in response. She feels her anger begin to simmer.

His hand comes around her throat, gripping tightly. Her nails come up to slash at him furiously. Her body thrums… from oxygen deprivation, from her anger, she isn't sure. She forces herself to focus it. She remembers the second knife, barely larger than a razor blade slipped up the sleeve of her shirt. Clenching all her muscles tightly, she wriggles her right hand into the sleeve.

She watches him whimper, fingers pressed against the gaping wound in his throat that seems to pour blood. The red doesn't phase her – if anything, she enjoys the stickiness against her skin. It reminds her that she has succeeded; she has passed another test.

She jumps when a hand comes down to clasp her shoulder tightly, then relaxes at her handler's voice: "What a good little _Mausi."_

The Viper allows herself to close her eyes, leaning into the man's touch. The praise is like an elixir – suddenly, she feels as if she could fight a thousand other battles.

The Asset stands a few paces behind the pair, surveying the bloodbath before him with quiet eyes. He feels a flicker of _something_ (would pride be the right word?) when he looks at the child. Child is barely the right word to use, he reminds himself. She, like he, is something less than human.

Their handler speaks to him without turning around: "finish her mission." He raises his gun and fires, three times.

She stands under a lukewarm shower, shivering as the water hits her back and runs over her oversensitive scalp. Her enemies' blood covered her hands and forearms, and splatters across her round face. She scrubs hard, willing the stains to wash away before the doctor becomes annoyed and starts to yell at her. This time, the blood hadn't had the chance to dry – she is clean within minutes, and sent to the Pod.

She doesn't know the Pod's real name – just that she and the Asset are sent there every once in a while. Him after a mission, and her after she passes a test. The doctor stands beside it with her handler; both turn to face her as she slinks in, bare feet barely making a sound against the cold concrete of the floor. She sinks into the cool white, watching as the lid slides closed with a hiss above her. She closes her eyes, welcoming the weightlessness that surrounds her.

The Viper, when asleep, does not look dangerous. She doesn't even look intimidating. Her face, round and pale, is smooth, freckles standing out starkly. She's a cute kid; Strucker knows, without a doubt, that she will become a beautiful woman. Good. Beautiful women are more deadly.

"Report," he orders, though he can see most of her vitals and basic information on the cryochamber's display. She is barely ten years old, small and compact, with the heart rate and blood pressure of an athlete.

"No signs of trauma. No scarring, even. Her metabolism is higher than normal." He expected this. Her metabolism raises every time she is injured, her cells working overtime to replace what was lost.

He watches her skin flicker like static. "Is it enough?"

"Enough?"

He sighs, his patience wearing. "Will she survive the injections?" This is what he has been waiting for – the answers he's been dying to discover since Arnim Zola's protégé synthesized the protein that would make even blood deadly.

The doctor consults his notes. "We will start on a low dose, and increase as we go."

The Asset regards her quietly. Her regeneration time means that they can spar for hours on end, but even the Viper has her limits. He can see in the subtle shake of her fists as she brings them, clenched, into fighting stance, that she is tiring. He looks at his handler, who nods back at him. He must complete his mission.  
He falls easily into his own stance, his eyes void of expression because he knows that only eggs her on. She has become a fierce fighter, quick-learning and ruthless for such a little thing, but she wears her emotions in her eyes. Every time.  
She feigns to the left, but he's expecting that – he's the one that taught her, after all. He dodges the fist she throws at his face, using her momentary imbalance to throw his own well-aimed kick at her ankles. She falls, tucking into a neat little roll when she hits the ground, and jumps to her feet, somewhere behind him. His enhanced hearing picks up the high whistle of her next punch, and this time he grabs her hand in mid-air, turning so she is tucked tightly against his chest.  
She remembers the careful instructions her handler had left her – _wait until you have made contact._ She hopes she isn't too late – sparring with the older assassin always pushes her to her limits, and she spent so much time dodging his manoeuvres and trying to land a few of her own that she barely remembered the purpose of this session. It is not until he holds her tightly against him that she has time to consider what her next move will be.  
As if on cue, her upper right arm throbs in time to her heartbeat, dancing just under her skin. She feels hot all over, knows that this is the moment she needed.  
Wriggling against the Asset, she is able to disentangle herself enough to carefully slip his knife from his utility belt. He notices immediately, loosens his grip on her and goes to retrieve his own weapon, but she is quicker than he, slicing deep into her palm and pressing the rapidly-closing wound to his thigh.  
The pain is intense. For the first time in a long time, he feels himself begin to slip, his mind wandering back to days before he became a machine, days that he isn't sure have ever existed. He recalls a burn like this one, but slower, longer, and deeper within him, like a fever burning him from the inside out. He drops the child, sinking to the ground in a daze.  
The Viper stares in horror at the machine before her. In the years she has trained with the Asset, she has known him as many things. He has been her mentor and her tormentor in turn; he has held her captive and set her free, letting her take out her anger on him. He has never been weak. She did not even think it capable of him, not even once.  
As he clutches his thigh, the fabric burnt into the skin, eyes wild and unfocused, she looks down at the long-closed slash across her palm and wonders, _what have they done to me?_


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hi everyone! Sorry for taking a while to update – I've had a pretty nasty illness but I'm hopefully starting to get over it now. I've got a fairly long chapter for you, so I hope that makes up for it!**

 **Also, a note on the timing/ setting of this fic in case it's confusing: we are currently in Siberia, which hasn't been abandoned and is still a functioning Hydra base for the purpose of my story. It's 2004 (8 years before the Battle of New York for reference) and the Viper is still 10 years old. I myself was feeling a bit confused about this (lol) so I hope this cleared it up for anyone feeling the same way. I think I have one more chapter planned in this time period before we'll be doing some time traveling.**

 **As always, don't forget to review/fave/follow and thanks so much for reading!**

* * *

 **Three**

"Again," her tutor instructs, finger pressing against the page in front of them. Brow furrowed, the Viper frowns, struggling to make sense of the words in front of her.

"Hello. My name is –" he holds up a hand before she can finish; she mispronounced "name" again. _Not nahm-ah,_ she chastises herself sternly. _It's nay-me._

The older man sighs, flipping through their book wearily. She thinks she might like him, with his large ears and white hair. He looks silly, unthreatening – though she's sure he could rip her limb from limb if he wanted to. She chases away the intrusive thought, focusing on the new phrase he presents to her.

"Say it like this: 'how are you?'" she copies, lips struggling to form the words in a strange, nasally accent. A ghost of a smile dances across his face. "Good. From now on, you will address all your superiors like that. English only. American accent. This evening you will begin your ear training."

Her eyes dart curiously to the stack of film balanced on her bed, English letters looming out at her. She dreads the weeks to come, reminiscent of the days before she knew Russian. She had drifted around the compound, effectively mute for the way they treated her. She learned quickly, though. She had to, to survive.

Her chest begins to burn, the sensation of fire spreading down to her extremities. She's noticed this happen when she's feeling distressed or irritable. She briefly recalls the doctor telling her that a spike in her adrenaline triggers her blood boil, as they call it. She swallows her discomfort, watching as her tutor, with a brief up-tilt of his lips, softly closes the door to her quarters.

"We leave for training in five minutes," the guard posted outside her door calls in accented English. She sighs; her period of immersion has begun already. She wonders, a thrill of excitement coursing through her, if this is her first mission. Suddenly the heavy training doesn't seem so bad.

Padding softly across the room, the Viper changes into her standard black tank top and leggings, pulling a tight jacket over her shoulders as an afterthought. She leaves her utility belt in her closet; there will be guns and throwing knives at the range if the Assetdecides to incorporate that into her session today.

Just thinking his name brings a cringe to her shoulders, guilt forming an ugly puddle in the pit of her stomach. It took mere days for him to recover from the burn she'd inflicted on him during her last test, but almost a month later he could still barely look her in the eyes. Their sparring had increased in intensity, bruising her and even breaking her bones on several occasions. She healed within minutes, of course, but she recognized the intent behind his punches. Any restraint he had before was gone.

There is a sharp tap on the door before her guard opens it, motioning to her to follow him. It strikes her as kind of ridiculous that she is still being led around the compound like an invalid or a child; she knows the place as well as she knows herself, and could probably navigate it with her eyes closed if she had to. She walks a couple of paces ahead of the guard, eyes boring into the space ahead of her.

"How you know English?" she says, slightly too loudly, after minutes of tense silence. The guard shrugs, knowing she can't see him.

"We all learn here. Is useful." He pauses before adding, "you use 'do'. How _do_ you know English." She nods, filing the information away to contemplate later.

"I know the words," she informs him. "Just the accent, it needs work." He lets out a bark of laughter.

"You trying to sound like American little girl, then?"

She nods. "Yes. I go on a mission soon. But I am _not_ little."

"Small, but mighty," he offers, and she contemplates before finally nodding her assent.

" _Mausi."_ The Viper stops as soon as she hears her handler's voice, a bubble of _something_ (happiness?) blossoming in her chest. She hasn't seen him since her last test with the Asset.

Turning, she offers him a small grin, letting it widen when he stoops so that they are eye-level. That's something she likes about her handler – he is always fair, even when she is rash and disrespectful. "Tell me, what is _Mausi_ in English?"

"Little mouse," she replies immediately. She learned that specially for him. "A small animal. Smaller and cuter than a rat."

He laughs. " _Perfekt._ " It is only when he comes to a stop that she realizes they're standing right outside the training room. Disappointment rushes through her. "Now, I won't keep you any longer," he says, holding the door open for her. She slips through, eyes immediately seeking out the assassin's dark, hulking form.

"Hello," she says. She wonders if he knows English. As usual, he stares at some point above her head, as if her presence in this room is something inconsequential. "How are you?" She lets her gaze drop to his thigh, wondering if she'd left a scar.

The Asset does something strange; he looks her in the eye. "They're teaching you English," he says. Not a question.

"You can say more than three words," she retorts with a nervous laugh. He sounds horrible – if his voice was as metal as his arm, it would be red with rust.

His bizarre, unexplained look morphs into a glare, accompanied by a low growl. She feels herself relax, once again recognizing the creature in front of her.

"You think this is something you want?" he asks, taking a heavy step closer to her. She plants both feet defiantly, leveling his glare with one of her own. He should know by now that intimidation isn't enough to scare an unbreakable girl.

"I will go on a mission." She rolls her eyes. "You train me all this time for something."

He looks like he wants to laugh, but has forgotten how to. Mouth slightly open, all he can do for a moment is blink at her, stalking toward her like a wild animal approaching its prey. She bends her knees slightly, poised to flee if necessary. "You wouldn't last a goddamn _minute, knyazhna."_

This time it's she who growls, her blood boil pulsing white-hot with every stab of her heart against her ribcage. He forgets how quickly her temper flares. "I will do more than survive, _chudovische,"_ she taunts him. "I am immortal."

He moves before she has time to react, her head bouncing against the wall behind her. The feel of metal pressed around her throat is something familiar at least, even as he applies enough pressure to collapse her windpipe. She feels her cells replicating rapidly as he pushes down harder, the lack of oxygen sending spots dancing into her vision.

His eyes are on hers, burning like her blood. "Are you going to beg?" he asks. She stares back, defiant even as her lungs scream for oxygen, until he lets her fall to the ground, his lip curling into a sneer of disgust.

"You are weak," he mutters, leaving her there.

* * *

The Asset is falling apart, Strucker thinks with anger as a scream splits the room.

It's always a shame to devote your life to a project that simply refuses to go as planned. Maybe it was a mistake to introduce him to the Viper. He seems to have developed a protectiveness over her, however violently he manifests it. Well. Strucker prefers not to dwell on that which can't be changed, especially when an annoying new development has just come to his attention.

"Put him in cryo when you're finished," he tells the doctor, turning on his heel without waiting for confirmation. His little Viper is waiting for him as promised, right outside the door. Her brow furrowed in confusion, staring into the room before he closes the door behind him with a click. He puts a hand beneath her chin, forcing her eyes up to his.

"You did the right thing coming to me," he tells her, watching the way her eyes brighten at the affirmation. He feels something that's almost affection when he looks at her, he realizes, but he shakes the thought away. At the end of the day, she is a machine just like the Asset. Albeit a better-trained one.

He lowers himself to her level so she understands his urgency. "I have one last thing I need from you for today."

She gets dressed quickly, her leather fatigues sliding down her body like a second skin. Any other day, she would be beyond thrilled, but her fight with the Asset makes her unsure how to feel. She busies herself with her utility belt, fitting it snugly against her hips. The only thing left is her hair. She pauses, unsure of how her handler will want it done. She decides on styling it similarly to how she wears it for training, a high bun keeping the curls away from her eyes.

Strucker hands her two guns for her thigh holsters, hoping she won't rely on them. She's a good shot, but her real strength comes in hand to hand combat, especially if she can bleed. He debriefs her quickly, shoving a thin, official-looking folder into her hands.

"Target: Alexei Baryshev, Russian biochemist. Mission: elimination." She gives him the briefest of nods, jaw clenched tightly in anticipation. He smiles briefly, squeezing her shoulder as he leads her toward the armored truck that will transport her and the rest of the team. "Go and save the world, Viper."

She opens the door to the backseat, assessing the interior critically before stepping inside. It's set up so there are four seats in the back, two facing forwards and two backwards. Two are already occupied by men she's seen only in passing – members of one of the strike teams she's looked up to since she can remember. She slides into a seat facing the front, nodding at the man facing her. He had long, shaggy hair, reminding her of a blonde Asset.

The view from the window is unfamiliar, and keeps her entertained for a while, watching forest after forest of dark green pine fly past her as they drive. Eventually, she remembers the folder in her hands and opens it, staring intently at the photo of the man she is to eliminate. He has a long, kind face, but she knows appearances can be deceiving. Flipping to the next page, she learns that Baryshev has had some kind of breakthrough in synthesizing a protein. She returns to staring out the window, nose almost pressed against the glass. Now they are out of the wild and have started to pass little pockets of civilization, houses with pinpricks of light coming through shaded windows. She watches tendrils of smoke rise from a few chimneys, drifting into the faded light of the late afternoon.

At some point or other, she thinks she falls asleep. She must have, for she startles awake to a sharp tap on the knee. She eyes the blonde assassin across from her, muttering quickly, "ready to comply."

"You see that?" He nods to the window beside them; the light is dim, and it takes her eyes a few minutes to adjust, especially now that the driver's turned their headlights off. Squinting, she realizes that the road they're traveling on is old and hasn't been equipped with safety features – scarcely ten feet away there is a sharp and sudden decline into a sparse forest. She glances back at the assassin, confused, before he gestures again. "Further."

With her eyes well enough adjusted to the dark, she notices a soft halo of light beyond the trees, traveling at a steady pace in the direction opposite theirs. "A car?" she asks, sudden clarity giving her a jolt of anticipation. The man across from her nods.

"What should I do?" He gives her a look of annoyance before replying, "Wait."

Their road takes a gentle curve, the faint swooping sensation in her stomach telling her that they're going downhill. The car accelerates, engine humming as they continue the loop, finally ending up on level ground once again. The car they're following has continued at its steady pace, swerving every once in a while to avoid deep potholes. They're a few hundred feet behind it, and quickly shortening the distance.

The man next to her unbuckles his seatbelt, kneeling down on the floor in front of him and stooping to reach for something under his seat. It's a case, large and fastened shut with three buckles across the sides that he opens deftly, eyes trained on the car in front of them. She recognizes him from the earlier days of her arms training, though his thick beard has grown out a good couple inches since then. Concentrating, she can remember his name – Sokolov.

He assembles his sniper rifle quickly and rolls down his window, settling into a crouch on his seat. The Viper follows suit when the others unbuckle their seatbelts, waiting for the signal she is sure will be obvious. The car in front of them appears to notice, finally, that it is being followed. Through the open window, the thrum of the engine being jolted to a higher speed is unmistakable. The Viper feels the burn in her chest as her breath hitches in her throat.

Sokolov points the barrel of the gun out the window as their driver revs the engine, all subtlety lost now that their cover has been blown. He balances the bipod against the side of the car, one eye staring intently through the telescopic sights. Watching, the Viper wishes she had paid more attention to her lessons in shooting – it's almost beautiful the way he and his weapon come together so seamlessly.

"Too far," he calls to the driver, who slams the gas pedal in response. The Viper feels as if she is pushed back into her seat, caught off guard. The assassin across from her looks like he wants to laugh.

"You know how to jump?" he asks, and she nods, recalling the numerous drills she'd been pushed through with the Asset. "Good. When we shoot out the tires, you jump."

By now they are almost level with the other car, an old station wagon that's suffered a couple dings to its back bumper. The back window is cracked up the middle, and when she looks closer she realizes there's a bullet stuck in the center, only able to make it halfway through the glass. She wonders what's so special about this man that he has so many enemies on his tail.

The driver drifts them just in time to avoid a collision, pulling up to the car's right-hand side, still a few feet back. Sokolov takes aim and shoots, the hiss of air signaling a hit.

The other assassin nods at her. "That's your cue." She unlocks the door, opening it just far enough that she can tuck-roll out onto the road beside her.

Or, as it turns out, not the road. Where she'd expected asphalt was a mixture of rock and dirt that cushions her fall better than she'd expected, but does nothing to stop her from rolling straight into a tree. She hits the wood head-on, the burst of pain across her forehead coupling with a wave of nausea. She does her best to shake it off, mindful of the team that is depending on her to complete the mission, and pushes herself unsteadily to her feet, taking off at a sprint towards the car that has sputtered to a stop on the other side of the road.

The sound of gunfire doesn't bother her, nor does the bullet that clips her ear, sending up a tail of steam before her skin closes back over the cut. She grabs her own gun, aiming for the backseat of the car, where she judges the bullets are coming from. Her team's vehicle has slowed to a stop just ahead, but no one makes a move to get out. She understands that she must complete this mission on her own.

She slows to a walk when she nears the car, head ringing painfully. The man seems to have realized that his bullets have no impact on her, for the gunfire has stopped, replaced by a silence fitting for the lateness of the night. In fact, from where she stands she can barely see any sign of his being there at all. She continues to approach cautiously, relying on her peripherals to pick up any sudden movement and slowly returning the pistol to its holster.

"So they sent _you_ for me, is that it?" she hears from somewhere to her left. She draws a knife from her utility belt, holding it so the blade peeks out from between her fingers. She ignores what he says – she doesn't understand it anyhow.

She senses, rather than sees, slight movement from the left-hand side of the car, and ventures closer, her heart beginning to thump in her chest. She's not afraid, exactly – more so cautious, every step made with purpose. She thinks of the Asset taunting her: _you are weak_. Her fists clench; she is not weak. When she returns from this mission, victorious, she'll find a way to prove it to him.

A cracking branch pulls her from her thoughts. Right. Stay focused. She doesn't know much about her mission, but she does know that anyone her handler personally wants eliminated must be dangerous.

Following her instincts, she listens for the muffled sounds of his breathing, careful to give the shadows a wide berth in case he is lying in wait for her there. If only she were more certain of his position. Then she could throw her knife, and the whole thing would be over in less than a minute.

"Is this always the case?" the voice asks. The Viper stops, frowning in the direction that it came from. If he's so close, why can't she see him?

"What is?" she asks, distracted. It occurs to her that this could be a trap, and she slowly begins to back up. Damn it – no trees within ten feet of her. There's nothing to put her back against, not unless she runs.

"The creator is always undone by his own creation," he answers, sounding further off. "But you wouldn't know that, of course. You haven't read Frankenstein."

The word… it sounds familiar. A sudden onslaught of a memory, or perhaps it's a dream. A green felt mask with black stiches spidering up the sides.

"But you remember it?" he asks. She shakes her head, partly to clear the memory and partly because she is confused. From her peripheral she watches the windows to the armored vehicle roll down, three pairs of eye focused intently on her. She has to _move._

Snarling, she turns, flinging the knife in the direction where she last heard the sound, nearly growling in frustration when it pings against the car's left taillight and clatters uselessly to the ground. Reaching for another knife, she spins around, eyes straining for any sign of movement.

"You still have a long way to go, little one," the voice taunts her, _so close_ to where she'd aimed that she is surprised she hadn't hit him. She has to move closer. She is certain she will relish driving a knife into his throat, after all the suspense he has generated.

"Such a beautiful little soldier." A quieter tone. Almost sad. "You and the Asset are two sides of one coin. He completes his mission because he has to. You enjoy it."

"Enough talking," she snaps, though the voice has been helpful in a way, because she thinks she has found his location. She comes up beside the car and crouches down slowly, peering at the undercarriage of the car.

This is her first mistake, for just on the other side is a phone, screen illuminated enough to show that it's in the process of a call.

The whistle above her head is the only warning she gets, but it's enough to send her survival instincts reeling as she dives to the side. The umbrella in her mission's hand whacks the ground mere inches from her face, hard enough that she knows she would have felt it.

She eases into standing, dancing out of the way as the man attempts to swing at her again. For someone so smart, he's clumsy with his makeshift weapon, as if he's barely trying to make contact. She switches the knife between her palms, her blood starting to burn. She can see her hands starting to flush, knows it's traveling up her chest as well.

She's running out of time, so she tucks and rolls under his arm as he makes another swing for her, slicing into her palm as she lands. She's timed it well enough that she's between his legs, but she'll have to move fast so he doesn't fall on her. Her blood sizzles, steam rising from the cut. She presses her palm flat against his inner thigh for a second, rolling out of the way as soon as she hears his gasp of agony. A plain black phone clatters from his hand as he sinks heavily to the ground, face white.

"Y-you're learning," he says weakly. It isn't enough. Pushing herself into a stand, she slices her palm again, grimacing as she presses deeper into the flesh. He raises a hand to stop her, but she is unstoppable. Everything she touches will burn.

He stares up at her, the skin on his forearm blistering angrily. "What are you waiting for, _chudovische?_ " His attempt to grin is more like a grimace. His left eye is rimmed in mottled bruises, a split lip tightening in pain.

She forces herself to look into his eyes as she slits his throat.

* * *

"Report." Strucker sits at his desk, the computer he'd been hunched over only moments previously forgotten in the wake of his agents' return.

"The Viper eliminated Baryshev," Sokolov informs him.

"And the vial?" The agent unzips a pouch attached to his utility belt, revealing a small, nondescript clear tube. He hands the chemical over carefully.

Strucker considers the miracle compound in his hands. He'll have to find a safe place for it. He glances at the lengthy file he had been reviewing before Sokolov had shown up, the name slot left blank. They'll need to name her, but first he must speak with Pierce. Tonight.

"Good," he says finally, peering through his monocle at the younger man. "You are dismissed. Instruct the Viper's guard to wake her tomorrow morning at dawn. She has a long day ahead of her."

* * *

 **(Apologies if I butchered the Russian)**

 _knyazhna: princess_

 _chudovische: monster_


	4. Interlude

**A/N: Hi everyone! Hope your weeks are off to a great start so far. So sorry that my update is coming a bit later than I wanted – typically, I left too much schoolwork to the last minute and had to catch up on a LOT over the weekend. This chapter's a bit of a short one to connect the introduction to the main portion of the story, where the Viper is all grown up! Yay! Anyways, without further ado, here it is!**

 **Also, major thank you to Mia, who let me know that I'd accidentally uploaded the wrong chapter for Chapter 3! I meant to thank you on the fixed version but was so flustered that I forgot lol, but I'm glad you're enjoying the story!**

* * *

 **Interlude**

The dress is itchy. No, maybe itchy is the wrong word. Maybe she just feels insecure in it.

Her bare legs peek out from under the lavender-colored skirt, no knives strapped around her thighs this time. She pulls the material down, wishing that it wouldn't ride up so much when she sits down.

Her hair is long, tumbling over her shoulders in a mess of curls. Before they'd gotten on the jet, her handler informed her that a special lady would be aboard to help her get ready. The woman in question wears heavy eyeliner and smiles too widely. The Viper doesn't know exactly _what_ she feels, but she knows she doesn't trust her.

"I'm going to fix your hair now," the woman says, loudly. She is clearly American, judging by the sharp way she pronounces her vowels, and seems to believe that the Viper has a hard time understanding English. The girl shoots her a look before turning around silently, her back to the lady.

Her eyes immediately seek out the Asset's, holding his gaze as she feels hands slide through her hair, catching on tangles that make her wince. His eyes are cold, but he understands her silent plea, and angles his body on the edge of his seat as if prepared for sudden motion. She turns her gaze to stare out the window, comforted by the knowledge that he will look out for her while her back is to this stranger.

Strucker watches this exchange carefully. He knows, rationally, that the Winter Soldier doesn't have any emotional ties to the Viper. He couldn't – an evening in the Chair and an overnight in cryo took away any lingering attachment he may have formed. Still, Strucker knows it's always better to be safe than sorry.

"We will have to give you a name, _Mausi,_ " he says, turning to the child. Her eyes meet his, though her head is perfectly still as the stylist finger-combs through her locks. She wrinkles her nose, thinking.

"What's wrong with Viper?" she asks. He wishes he had given her more time to practice her English before they transferred her – the accent is still there, her words coming out uncertain.

He forces a smile onto his face, realizing she's still watching him curiously. "Viper is hardly a name for a little girl," he laughs. "No, you need a real name. Something like… Annabelle, or Rose."

"I don't like those," the Viper says immediately, her eyes drifting to the Asset. He seems to share her disgust, though barely perceptibly – his upper lip twitches as if he wants to curl it.

"What is a good girl's name?" she asks him. She can tell he knows that she's talking to him by the way he regards her from the corner of his eye.

"I don't know."

The Viper sighs exaggeratedly. Of course, he wouldn't; when he isn't beating up on targets or, well, beating up on her, the Asset is next to useless.

"I can help you think up some names, if you'd like," the stylist says. Her hands pull gently on the roots of her hair, sending a shiver down the Viper's spine. It's not an unpleasant feeling, and it gives her some good will for the woman.

"Okay," she shrugs, careful not to move too much as the stylist begins to twist her hair into an intricate type of braid. "What are some American names?"

The older woman laughs. "Oh sweetheart, with that accent? A modern American name would just seem out of place." She is silent for a while, to the point that the Viper begins to feel uncertain that she will continue the conversation. Finally, she adds, "You're very pretty. You would match with a classic name. We can even find one with a meaning that you like, to make it more believable." The Viper nods – it all makes sense. She will be better able to play her part if she doesn't grimace every time her new handler refers to her in conversation.

"I want a powerful name," she says, not adding the second part: that she wants people to hear it and be afraid _._ There's no use upsetting this lady, especially when she's being so nice.

The woman gently takes her chin between her fingers, slowly turning the Viper's head to face hers. She regards her with such scrutiny that the girl, for a moment, feels uncomfortable.

"You look like a Victoria," she says finally. "Victoria as in victory. It's a pretty powerful name."

The Viper tests it herself. "Victoria." She likes that it has a V.

Strucker nods, almost to himself. "Yes… that will do quite nicely. You will answer to Victoria in addition to your designated title." The Viper nods: affirmative _._

The only voice they do not expect is the one that speaks next. "Victoria," the Asset murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. The child meets his gaze, her calculating stare softening by a fraction as she looks at him. "Don't get sentimental, Winter," she mutters, lips quirked into a small, pleased smile.

He blinks, confused at the feeling that stirs in his stomach. Probably nausea, he grimaces, turning to look out the window. He just met this girl today; there was no reason to feel anything toward her at all.

He wonders at the familiarity of the nickname she'd given him. There's something unthreatening and almost fond about Winter, clashing with the fear that his full title provokes. He wonders if perhaps they'd met before, and he's just forgotten. He knows he has a habit of doing that. Bad memory.

"There." The stylist says with a satisfied smirk, stepping a few paces back to admire her work. She hands the girl a small pocket mirror, saying, "why don't you take a look, _Victoria._ "

She gasps, the slight, girlish noise startling the Asset as if she has shouted. She flushes slightly, meeting his gaze with a mumbled, "sorry." His expression is still blank, but she swears she can see his lips twitch in his own version of a smile.

"This is beautiful," she clears her throat, turning the attention back to the elaborate French braid that twists her hair up, framing her face. "Thank you."

The stylist smiles sweetly at her, a gentle hand smoothing back her flyaway hairs. Perhaps she was too hasty in her earlier judgement of this woman; she is patient and kind. "You're very welcome. I hope to be seeing a lot of you in Washington."

The pilot comes over the intercom, informing them in crisp English that they are beginning to descend. The Viper ignores her seatbelt, moving to plop down in the seat across from the Asset. She runs a hand over the white, leathery seat – unlike the getaway car she rode in the night before, everything in the jet is clean, polished, and rich.

"Will you miss me?" she asks him quietly in Russian, her eyes trained on the slowly appearing landscape beneath them. The Asset looks at her curiously.

"Why would I miss you?" he asks, and her ears, so accustomed to his voices and moods, picks up the hint of uncertainty. She feels a surge of affection for him, one of those that is few and far between. Some days she loves her mentor fiercely; most days she wishes she could just slit his throat herself. Ironic, she thinks; for all she knows, this could be the last time they'll ever see each other.

"You taught me everything I know. _Almost_ everything," she corrects herself. "Things that help me to fight."

"I don't remember doing that."

She laughs bitterly. "You wouldn't."

He is at a loss, staring at her hard in the hopes that something, _anything,_ will come back to him. She catches his gaze and impulsively puts a hand on his knee. The Asset stiffens, his hand already resting protectively over his gun holster before he realizes that she intended it as a gesture of comfort. He has seem similar in others (usually when they know they're about to die), but he can't recall ever being the subject of such a touch.

"I think…" she hesitates, cheeks once again blooming a rosy red. "I haven't been the best student. But I do care." The Asset is overwhelmed by her admission, pushing her hand off him and angling his body away. The younger assassin sighs, eyes once again seeking the window. Patchwork fields form a quilt over the earth in shades of green and gold, separated by swaths of dark green forest and the occasional body of water. Fifteen minutes later, they touch land again, gliding down a large black runway seemingly in the middle of nowhere.

"Nervous?" the stylist asks her as they deplane. She shakes her head, though her sweaty palms would betray her. She feels the heat of the Asset, who stands just a few feet behind her, and it comforts her somewhat to know that he's there.

There are two figures at the end of the runway, standing in front of a shiny black car. The man to the right is obviously the oldest, and most likely the higher ranked from the way that he stands slightly in front of the others. His light, reddish-blonde hair has only just started to fade into shades of white, and the black glasses perched on his nose serve to magnify the thin wrinkles surrounding his eyes. The other is well-built and handsome, with an angular, stubble-dusted jaw and dark hair styled in a manner similar to what is popular back at the base in Russia. He smiles at the Viper as their party approaches, which she returns, remembering the importance of manners in America.

"I trust your trip was comfortable?" the older man asks, shaking hands with Strucker.

"Couldn't have asked for better. The return journey will be a bit longer of course, but such is always the case with these trans-Atlantic flights. We should still be back before tomorrow."

She looks up, alarmed at his mention of leaving so soon, but her handler ignores her stare, putting both hands firmly on her shoulders and steering her so she stands between him and the older man.

"This is Secretary Pierce. He will be your new handler; you will take orders from him, and he will report back to me. I trust you will not be a disappointment." She finds herself shaking her head, taking the hand that Secretary Pierce offers her with a slight tremble to her fingers.

"You're quite a little thing, aren't you?" he laughs to himself, pumping her hand warmly in his. She senses that it would be appropriate to smile, which seems to please him, for he beams back at her.

"Small, but well-trained," Strucker replies, as if he needs to defend her. "Deadly. With continued training, she will mature into one of the best weapons Hydra has ever seen."

"Yes, Agent Rumlow will take over her training," the secretary says, gesturing to his companion, who nods. "She will, of course, eventually have to be enrolled in school if we continue with our decision to integrate her fully, but I plan to keep her at home until she has more time to improve her English. I understand the situation is not … ideal."

Strucker forces back a grimace, settling for a quick shake of his head. "Not at all. But the important thing is that the situation is now contained."

"Agreed." Secretary Pierce turns his full attention back to the Viper, who has been regarding him with what she hopes is a look of passive agreeableness. She knows how badly it would reflect on her last handler if she were to make a bad impression. "Do you have a name, or will we have to think of something?"

She chances a glance beside her, eyes locking with the Asset's like earth meeting the ocean. _Auf Wiedersehen,_ her traitor mind says. Until we meet again.

"I am the Viper," she hears her own small voice say. "And my name is Victoria."


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hey lovelies! So sorry for the delay – as usual, it's school (ugh). I'll try and get later chapters out a little faster in the future, though the next few weeks are essentially my hell weeks for the semester so it'll be a lot of writing at midnight (sorta like I am now lol).**

 **Anyways... the Viper (or as we'll come to refer to her, Victoria/ Vic) is officially legal! Sexiness will ensue! Scandalous! The Asset does not make an appearance in this chapter, BUT stick around to the end for the introduction of a character that will be very, very important to the fate of this story.**

 **Thanks again for reading, and enjoy!**

 **Four**

 _8 years later ~ 2012_

"Is that the best you can do, little girl?" Brock taunts her, bouncing loosely from one foot to the other. His skin gleams with a thing sheen of sweat, only serving to further define his biceps. _Shit,_ she thinks, settling back into fighting stance. She really _has_ to do something about her sudden, inconvenient crush.

"How many times do I have to tell you I'm not a little girl?" she grins, tossing her ponytail behind her with a well-practiced flick. "I'm just going easy on you."

He snorts. "Yea, right, princess." She lunges at him, knowing that he'll anticipate her swinging with her preferred left hand. She uses this to her advantage – when he ducks sideways to avoid the punch, she switches hands, letting out a little squeal of triumph when her fist hits something solid.

He grunts in pain and surprise, looking at her with an expression she can't quite name, before aiming a few punches of his own. She dodges with ease, darting backwards to avoid his swings. "You think maybe you're getting a little old for this?" she teases, though her smile quickly slips off her face when he charges her, all but backing her into the gym wall. She jumps sideways just in time, landing lightly on both feet.

He smirks at her, conceding defeat as he uses the towel hung to the side of the mat to wipe his face. "This doesn't mean you win, for the record," he warns, watching that familiar shit-eating grin edge its way onto her face. "I just wanna get a shower in before tonight."

Victoria feels her heart begin to burn, and it's not just from the mental image of Brock in the shower. "You should see the dress they've got me in for tonight," she says, following him out of the gym and down the hall to the locker rooms.

"Oh yeah?" He turns to look over his shoulder, clearly amused. She tilts her chin defiantly, allowing her lower lip to pout slightly in the way that always works with the older guys. "Yeah."

"Let me guess…" he leans lazily against the door to the men's room, looking at her pensively. "You're gonna have a Jessica Rabbit thing going on."

"Jessica Rabbit?"

Brock sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Jesus Vic, you've been here eight years and still haven't caught up on pop culture references. Just picture the most low-cut red dress you've ever seen and you'll be close enough."

She playfully bumps her hip with his, pushing past him to the door to the women's locker room. "It's not like I really have free time to research _every single_ American movie that's been released. And you're not even right. It's green."

He rolls his eyes. "Figures. They always have you in green."

"It's a Viper signature," she calls as the door closes behind her, grinning in spite of herself. Mostly, she can't wait to see the look on his face when he _does_ see the dress.

She has the room to herself this evening, which isn't surprising. As secretive as S.H.I.E.L.D. is, they still run fairly regular office hours – a good thing, since Vic isn't sure how the agents would react to Secretary Pierce's "niece" sparring for hours with a STRIKE team member every other night. She strips quickly, stepping into the closest shower cubicle and turning the water temperature to cold. She runs too warm-blooded for regular hot showers.

She isn't much of a singer, but she hums a little tune to herself, lathering body wash onto a loofah and sighing contentedly as the cool droplets tingle her scalp. The song is familiar to her, yet she can't place her finger on exactly where she heard it. She isn't even sure she could remember the words.

She slips into a contemplative silence, deciding firmly not to follow the strands of memory back to where they may take her. There are much more pressing things ahead – her mission his evening, the prom that everyone at school seems to be talking about, and of course, her impending graduation. Throughout the day, her classmates were called to the front office one by one to try on their cap and gown, and Vic had felt ridiculously grown-up standing there with the hat balancing precariously on her curls as the fitting ladies fussed around her.

"Will you have other family coming out for the big day?" Mr. Richardson, the secretary, asked her politely. She wanted to laugh, but instead offered him a bright smile and said she wasn't sure yet.

"Hurry up, princess!" Brock yells, his voice close enough that Vic knows he's entered the changing room. _Asshole._ "I don't have all night!"

She rinses out her hair quickly and shuts off the water, wrapping herself in a towel and padding barefoot to her locker. She is unsurprised (if not a little excited) to see Brock still standing there, eyes meeting hers as she rounds the corner.

"You know, I'd change a lot faster if you'd give me some damn privacy," she huffs. He smirks in response, letting his eyes dip brazenly before meeting hers again.

"My apologies," he replies mockingly, hands held up in surrender. She rolls her eyes, waiting until he's out of sight before dropping her towel to the floor and changing into her sweats, ignoring the burn of her chest.

She and Brock take the elevator to the ground floor, stepping out into a brightly-lit atrium. Though she's had her doubts about S.H.I.E.L.D., Vic has to admit that she loves the Triskelion. Maybe it's the sheer size of the place, or the fact that so many important agents are stationed there. Whatever the reason, she feels important when she's inside its walls; as if she's a part of something much bigger than herself.

Which she is, she reminds herself. She is an integral part in restoring order to the world; Pierce tells her so every day at least once. She has sacrificed a normal life to let others live out theirs. The thought brings a smile to her face as they exit through the front and out onto the courtyard, where a black van awaits them.

"You're quiet this evening," Brock remarks, eyes flicking to her as he drives. She shrugs in response.

"Just thinking about tonight. I've been briefed about four times this week, and I just want to make sure I get it right, you know?"

He raises a dubious eyebrow. "You always get it right. It's the other assholes we've gotta worry about."

She giggles, practically glowing from the praise. "I know. I just wanted to hear you say that."

"Shut up." They both laugh, settling back into comfortable silence as Brock takes a turn onto the highway.

Vic looks out the window so she won't have to look at him and swallow down her unrequited desire. Rush hour traffic has calmed enough that they'll be home in the next twenty minutes or so, but there are enough cars on the road to make people watching interesting. She watches a toddler bouncing happily in his car seat and smiles, waving a little as they drive past.

"Do you have kids?" she asks, struck by how little she knows a man that's fought with her side by side for years. Brock seems taken aback by the question, running a hand over his chin thoughtfully.

"God, I hope not. Why, looking to babysit?"

Vic shudders. "Just wondering. I don't think I'd do very well with kids."

"Yeah, when I think caregiver, I don't tend to go with the assassin either." After a pause, he adds, "but who knows. Maybe motherhood will really take to you."

She feels her beat a little bit faster. _Damn_ this crush. "I don't know. I feel like people either make or destroy things."

"You can do both," he argues. "Look at us – we destroy things all the time and from that we're building a better world."

"That's different from a baby."

"I guess neither of us would really know, now would we?" she smiles, turning her head to look out the window.

* * *

Vic has zipped up the back of her dress and is standing in front of her full-length mirror when there's a brisk knock to her bedroom door. She can tell by the heavy-handedness that it's Pierce.

"Come in."

"Is that what we've chosen to put you in?" he asks immediately upon entering, eyes surveying her in a way that suggests she'd be more clothed if she were standing there naked. With any other man Vic may have found the gesture flirtatious, but she knows her adopted uncle well enough to recognize the calculations going on behind his light-colored eyes.

She frowns, turning her head to peer at herself once again. "You don't like it?"

He sighs. "Sometimes I just forget that you've grown up."

Vic smiles fondly, letting him tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Is that a bad thing?" She feels like she's spent her life _waiting_ to grow up.

"Not necessarily. But you know we will expect more of you now."

"I'll do it," she says immediately, her mouth smoothing into a thin line of determination. Pierce smiles at her, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"I know you will." Clearing his throat, looks down at his watch. "I just wanted to make sure you're clear on your role in tonight's mission."

She nods. Pierce takes her hand in his, guiding her toward the door. "If you're ready, then it's time."

* * *

The ballroom is busy, packed to the brim with wealthy and important men and women making their rounds beneath a gigantic crystal chandelier. Vic is sure she has never seen so many diamonds in her life… but then, she thinks that every time she attends one of these galas. Her life in America is so different from her humble beginnings, she thinks to herself with a smirk, taking a lute of rosy champagne from one of the ushers that weave through throngs of the well-dressed elite.

"Aren't you a little young to drink?" She turns her head delicately, finding Brock standing just slightly to her left. Her smile widens as she tips the glass to him.

"It's all part of the character," she says softly, turning so he'll experience the full effect of her skintight dress. His eyes waver from hers for just a moment, taking in the sight before him, before he remarks, "green really is your color."

She knows this is a dangerous game she's playing. Any minute, her target will walk through the grand double doors and she will have to pretend that she has eyes only for him, but _damn_ if she doesn't like this heady feeling that seems to overtake her when she's around Brock.

"Thanks," she says instead of the millions of things that she's thinking, swallowing down her frustration and willing herself to _behave_. "You don't look so bad yourself."

He materializes into the crowd once more, and she finds herself perched on a stool by the bar, quietly surveying the scene before her. Pierce always says that she has the uncanny ability to make herself invisible, and in a way, he's right, but to Vic it's all a science. A slight hunch of the shoulders, a lowering of the eyes and a down tilt of the lips, and suddenly everyone leaves you alone.

"Target has arrived," comes the crackling voice in her comms earpiece. She slides off her stool, straightening her shoulders as a young, dark-haired man appears in the doorway. His suitcoat looks like it was hastily buttoned, hanging off his broad shoulders at an awkward angle. The inky tendrils of some kind of tattoo are visible at the neckline of his shirt. There's something about the way his shoulder-length hair hangs into his blue eyes that reminds her of someone else, but she pushes that memory away as quickly as it comes. She hasn't thought of him in years, and she isn't about to start now.

She realizes she's frowning and plasters a pretty pout onto her face, moving slowly but purposefully through the crowd until she is sure he can see her. His eyes trail her body – clearly, he is an entitled man, and doesn't bother to hide his appreciation of her. When his eyes find hers, she smiles languidly, inviting him to come and talk to her.

"What's a pretty girl like you doing all by herself?"

"Waiting for someone to come distract me from my boredom," she replies, letting her Russian accent thicken. He raises his eyebrows, gesturing down to the glass of champagne.

"What are you drinking? Next round's on me."

It's an open bar, but she accepts the invitation graciously, her hand caressing his arm. "What a gentleman."

"Good girl," Brock says into her ear, and she flushes, looking for him in her peripherals. She can just picture him chuckling to himself at his clever little remark.

Luckily, her target takes it as a sign of tipsiness. "Had a lot to drink, eh?"

She decides to go with that, nodding her head bashfully. "Well… maybe one or two."

He chuckles, one hand coming to rest on the small of her back. "Looks like I've gotta catch up to you then. I'm Erik, by the way."

"Sasha," she replies, ignoring the way that Brock's eyes burn holes into her spine.

* * *

Her target is so drunk that by the time their taxi has pulled up to the front of a rather luxurious apartment building, she is covered in vomit and trying not to retch herself.

"Thanks so much," she says apologetically to the cab driver, reaching into Erik's wallet and pulling out a twenty-dollar bill. She hoists her target, still dry-heaving, out of his seat, all but dragging him toward the door as the cab speeds off. She wishes there'd been another way to get back to his home; something a little less conspicuous. But she worked with what she had, as always.

"We'll take care of him," she hears in her ear, as if Rumlow has some way of reading her thoughts. She smiles, knowing he can't see her.

"Let's get you to bed, tiger," she sighs, rummaging around in her target's suit pockets for his keys.

"Depends on if you'll be joinin' me," he slurs, looking at her with bloodshot eyes. He leans in to kiss her, but she pushes him away gently.

"We should clean up first."

The door opens to a dark living room that smells a lot like leather and floor cleaner. He must have a maid, she thinks to herself, helping him onto one of the stools in front of the bar.

"You know, you're nice," he mumbles. "Most pretty girls are real fuckin' bitches. Not you though."

She tilts her head, letting her hair tumble down her shoulders to fan out across her exposed chest. The dress is sweetheart cut, low enough to see the swell of her breasts beneath it. "Nice?" she says lowly, reaching down to unbutton his tie. "Not always."

"How old are you again?" he asks, eyes on the shifting neckline of her dress.

"Does it matter?" she asks, letting her head fall slightly to give him permission to kiss her.

She lets her mind drift a little as he kisses her, all thoughts of cleaning up disregarded. She knows she needs to move this escapade to the bathroom, where things will be easier. She asks around his tongue dipping into her mouth, "mind a shower?"

She shimmies out of her dress while he sits on the toilet, eyes drooping drunkenly. "You'll be extracted in ten minutes," her comms crackles.

"Well, am I going to be showering alone then?" she asks, hands on the smooth skin of her hips. He smiles lopsidedly, practically falling out of his suit and tie. She undoes his belt buckle, ignoring the newly naked man in front of her. Her mission isn't sex. She needs to focus. She fidgets with the controls of the shower, turning the temperature all the way up.

His hair hangs in clumps around his face when it's wet, looking almost black. Another memory fights to the forefront of her mind and clamps down. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Metal. Burns.

"Whatcha thinking about?" he asks. Her returning smile is almost condescending, maybe even with a tinge of loathing to it.

"You remind me a lot of an old friend," she says, sliding her arm backwards until it reaches a built-in shelf. Two inches to the left, and her hand touches the razor.

"How so?" He looks confused.

"The hair, mostly." She presses the tip of the blade into her palm, letting herself overheat under the steamy water. "Though when I think about it, you're not like him at all, are you?" She brings her hand to the side of his neck, feeling the blood slide down her wrist. "He is a soldier, and you're nothing but a traitor."

She is fire. She feels the skin beneath her palm melt away, but she blocks out the screams. When she feels the familiar tingling of her body beginning to stitch itself up again, she makes another cut, letting the blood coat her fingertips before she sticks the pointer and the middle into his eyes, pushing softly until she finds the brain. And then it's all over. She doesn't feel the cuts, but her blood roars and turns in her body, setting fire to every nerve ending.

She turns off the water, staring down at her mission with interest. She knows that she is a medical wonder, especially once they discovered the effects of warm temperatures on her. She knows, scientifically, that her blood is one of the hottest substances to exist on Earth, but it's always something different to see its effects on her missions. There is no blood; there is nothing, in fact, except the body, which she knows will be removed before long. She grabs the towel hanging beside the shower door, patting off the water that clings to her skin before redressing and heading out to the living room to wait.

* * *

"Mission report." Dark brown eyes meet blue.

"Target eliminated. Extraction was met at twenty-three hours and forty-two minutes. The body has been removed." Pierce turns to Rumlow, who adds, "his computers were tapped and scanned for intel – all sensitive files were retrieved and disposed of. It seems that Erik Chappelle never made it home after a night of heavy drinking."

"And the witnesses?"

"There was one – a taxi driver that was easily persuaded to corroborate our story. A wife and child are involved." Pierce nods, finally satisfied.

"Go home." He regards the Viper, not missing the way her legs tremble slightly, as if it's taking a massive effort to hold herself up. "And you, Victoria. Go to bed. We'll talk in the morning."

Vic feels her shoulders slump as if of their own accord as she follows Brock out of the office. Her blood boil has subsided, leaving her with the overwhelming feeling of exhaustion. And yet, she knows it will be hard to sleep tonight – it always is after a mission.

"You did good tonight," Brock says, breaking the silence between them. She watches him watch her with an indescribable look on his face. A comfortable, familiar warmth blossoms in her chest, sliding down until it's right between her legs.

"I did my job," she replies, breath hitching as he takes the smallest step forward. One large, calloused hand rests on her lower back, its weight inviting her to relax and fall into him.

"I meant what I said earlier," he murmurs, hand tracing lazy circles over her back as his breath tickles the shell of her ear. She shivers, looking up at him quizzically. He bites her ear gently, leaving a light, wet kiss just below her earlobe. "Green really is your color."

The door to the study opens with a bang, startling them apart from one another. Vic desperately tries to calm her racing heart, turning to meet Pierce's wide eyes.

"Is the mission compromised?" she asks immediately, mentally preparing herself to spend the night cleaning up Hydra's mess. Pierce opens his mouth as if he wants to say something, then closes it a minute later.

"Are you having a stroke?" Brock asks dryly. Vic knows his eyes are on her; she ignores him. His question, fortunately, seems to bring Pierce back to himself.

"It's not the mission," he says. "There's been a… discovery."

"Is Hydra compromised?" Vic asks, confused.

Her adopted uncle clears her throat. "Not necessarily. Though the situation is not ideal."

"Sir?"

"They found Captain America, and… well, and it seems as if he's still alive."


End file.
